The Rembrandt Affair

you isn't a lie.'

'I'm a reporter, you idiot. And when I get out of here, I'm going to find out who you are and destroy you.'

'But you're not really a reporter at all, are you, Zoe? Your job at the Financial Journal is nothing but a cover. Two years ago, you were ordered by your superiors at British intelligence to form a sexual relationship with Mr. Landesmann in order to spy on his business operations. You made contact with Mr. Landesmann by expressing interest in interviewing him. Then, twenty-two months ago, you made contact with him in Davos.'

'That's madness. Martin tried to seduce me in Davos. He invited me to his suite for dinner.'

'That's not the way Jonas Brunner and the rest of Mr. Landesmann's security detail remember the evening, Zoe. They recall that you were very flirtatious and aggressive. And that's what they'll tell the Swiss police.' He paused, then added, 'But it doesn't have to come to that, Zoe. The sooner you confess, the sooner we can resolve this unpleasant affair.'

'I have nothing to confess other than foolishness. Obviously, I was a fool ever to believe Martin's lies.'

'What lies are those, Zoe?'

'Saint Martin,' she said, her voice dripping with contempt.

The man was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke again, he did so not to Zoe but to the gun in his hand.

'Say the words, Zoe. Confess your sins. Tell me the truth. Tell me that you're not a real reporter. Tell me that you were ordered by your superiors in London to seduce Mr. Landesmann and steal his private documents.'

'I won't say it because it's not true. I loved Martin.'

'Did you?' He looked up from the gun as if genuinely surprised, then at Mikhail. 'And what about your friend, Mr. Danilov? Are you in love with him, too?'

'I hardly know him.'

'That's not what he says. According to Mr. Danilov, you two are working together on the Landesmann case.'

'I'm not working with anyone. And I don't know anything about a Landesmann case. I don't know why there would even be a Landesmann case.'

'That's not what Mr. Danilov says.'

Zoe looked directly at Mikhail for the first time since the interrogation had begun. He held her gaze for a few seconds, then almost imperceptibly shook his head. Zoe's inquisitor noticed. He walked slowly over to Mikhail and struck him hard across the face with the butt of the gun, opening another gash high on his cheek. Then the man took a fistful of Mikhail's hair and pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple. A guard standing on the opposite side took a hasty step backward. The man holding the gun screwed the barrel into Mikhail's skin, then turned his head and looked at Zoe.

'You have one chance to tell the truth, Zoe. Otherwise, Mr. Danilov is going to die. And if he dies, you die. Because we can't have witnesses lying around, can we? Confess your sins, Zoe. Tell me the truth.'

Mikhail was wincing with pain. But this time he didn't try to hide his message to Zoe. He was shaking his head violently from side to side, shouting something into the duct tape covering his mouth. This earned him two more blows with the butt of the gun. Zoe closed her eyes.

'Last chance, Zoe.'

'Put the gun down.'

'Only if you tell me the truth.'

'Put the gun down.' She opened her eyes. 'Put it down, and I'll tell you everything you want to know.'

'Tell me now.'

'Stop, damn it. You're hurting him.'

'I'm going to do much worse if you don't start talking. Tell me the truth, Zoe. Tell me you're a spy.'

'I'm not a spy.'

'So why did you help them?'

'Because they asked me to.'

'Who did?'

'British intelligence.'

'Who else?'

'Israeli intelligence.'

'Who's in charge of the operation?'

'I don't know.'

'Who's in charge, Zoe?'

'I don't know his real name.'

'You're lying, Zoe. Tell me his name.'

'His name is Gabriel.'

'Gabriel Allon?'

'Yes, Gabriel Allon.'

'Was he in Geneva tonight?'

'I don't know.'

'Answer me, Zoe. Was he in Geneva tonight?'

'Yes.'

'Were there others?'

'Yes.'

'Tell me their names, Zoe. All of them.'

72 MAYFAIR, LONDON

The digital clock at the front of the London ops center read 05:53:17. Less than seven minutes remaining until Graham Seymour's deadline. Shamron stared at the numbers despondently as if trying to mentally blunt their advance. It was odd, he thought, but in his youth time had always seemed to slow to a crawl at moments like these. Now the clock was roaring along at a gallop. He wondered whether it was yet another consequence of growing old. Time was his most implacable foe.

Regrettably, Shamron had lived through many such Office catastrophes and knew how the next few hours were likely to unfold. Once upon a time, the Europeans might have been expected to turn a blind eye. But no more. These days, they no longer had much use for the enterprise known as the State of Israel, and Shamron knew full well that the operation against Martin Landesmann was not going to go over well in the halls of European power. Yes, the British and Americans had been along for the ride, but none of that would matter when the arrest warrants were issued. Not one would bear an American or British name. Only Israeli names. Yossi Gavish, Dina Sarid, Yaakov Rossman, Rimona Stern, Gabriel Allon...They had carried out some of the greatest operations in the history of the Office. But not tonight. Tonight, Saint Martin had beaten them.

Shamron turned his gaze toward Uzi Navot. He was seated in a cubicle reserved for the FBI, a secure telephone pressed to his ear. At the other end of the call was the prime minister. It was never pleasant to wake a prime minister—especially when the news involved a looming diplomatic and political disaster—and Shamron could only imagine the tirade Navot was now enduring. He could not help but feel an ache of guilt. Navot had wanted no part of Landesmann and would now be forced to pay the price for Shamron's folly. Shamron would do his best to shield Navot from harm, but he knew how these things went. A head would have to roll. And it was likely to be Navot's.

He looked at the clock again: 05:56:38...Three and a half minutes until Graham